


Prayer Beads

by ChuckleVoodoos



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Confessional, M/M, Priests, Sins
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-23
Updated: 2015-06-23
Packaged: 2018-04-05 18:48:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4190988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChuckleVoodoos/pseuds/ChuckleVoodoos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Matt doesn't know if love or lust is the deadlier sin. Either way, he's going to hell.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Prayer Beads

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.”

 

Matt tells the priest about his father, about the dead-eyed devil and the man who always got back up again. He tells him about the devil that’s in _every_ Murdock man, every single one, and how he didn’t understand, not then. Now he does.

 

He asks for forgiveness for what he’s about to do, and the priest _laughs._

“You can’t really _reserve_ repentance.” The man informs him thoughtfully, a smile in his voice. “But sure. Pray a rosary and we’ll call it even.” Matt, who was standing to leave, stops. He blinks back towards the other side of the confessional.

 

The priest has a surprisingly light voice, cheerful. Young too, judging by the sound. Matt didn’t know any young priests worked here—it’s a place steeped in tradition, in old blood and loyal clergy. He’d been expecting someone older, a little more solemn and world-weary. Not this.

 

“One rosary?” He repeats carefully. “You have no idea what I’m about to do.” Honestly, Matt’s gotten one rosary for saying ‘fuck’. This is a little more serious than that.

 

“Yup, just the one.” The priest confirms easily. “I mean, you could throw an extra Hail Mary in there if you feel particularly guilty, but one rosary should probably do it.”

 

Matt blinks again, opens his mouth, can't quite think of anything to say, considers for a moment, and then sits back down. 

 

“Why? I could be about to do something horrible.” He points out somewhat mulishly, and he hears a rustle of cloth as the man shrugs.

 

“I doubt it.” He replies, incredibly relaxed. Almost offensively relaxed, to be honest. Matt is talking about sinning horribly, and this so-called holy man doesn't seem phased at all . “Do you want me to add an Our Father to that order? Because I can, if that would cheer you up.”

 

“It’s not the penance that’s the problem.” Matt tells him earnestly. “It’s the fact that you’re not even _considering_ the fact that someone could be about to leave your church and commit a mortal sin.”

 

“Yeah, you hit every point on the checklist.” The priest agrees, easy and upbeat, and Matt stiffens in shock. “Full knowledge and consent with the intention to commit a serious offense. You’re pretty much textbook for mortal sin.”

 

Well. Well, then. Matt folds up his cane and tucks it into his sleeve, shifting to settle more comfortably on the bench. He can afford to stay just a little longer.

 

“And that’s worth one rosary?” He asks, baffled. That doesn't seem quite right. The nuns would break out the ruler and dole out physical punishments for even the slightest infraction, and yet now a mortal sin doesn't even garner a slap on the wrist? It seems impossible. It is impossible, and yet the priest hums agreeably.

 

“Usually? No way. But I’ll make an exception in your case.” Matt considers this statement for a moment. He’s not entirely sure this man is a priest anymore. It’s possible that he’s just an insane man _masquerading_ as a priest, hidden away in the confessional to prey on people’s secrets and fears. That seems infinitely more likely than an ordained priest letting Matt off the hook for a mortal sin with just a single measly rosary to show for it. 

 

“Why?” He asks slowly, wondering if he’s going to have to intervene if the insane man gets violent. The possibly-not-a-priest hums again.

 

“Because you already feel guilty.” The priest explains calmly. “You haven’t done anything yet, and you’re already beating yourself up about it. That’s not the reaction of a coldblooded criminal. That’s the reaction of a good man who is making a hard choice, and probably the _right_ choice too.”

 

Matt swallows, pulling out his cane again to fiddle with the strap. It’s something he needs to do when he’s feeling upset—his hands need to be moving, and if it’s not a fight he needs to find other ways to get the energy out.

 

“You’ve only talked to me for a few minutes.” Matt reminds him. “That’s not long enough to know.”

 

“Yeah, a few minutes of listening to you talk about your father.” The priest reminds him gently, and Matt gives a shuddering breath. The softness in the priest's voice doesn't sound like pity, and accordingly Matt's hackles don't go up, but it's so soft, and so gentle, and Matt feels...odd. He can't remember the last time he talked about his father to anyone, not with any real depth. “And he sounded like a good man too. Must run in the family.”

 

Matt almost rips the strap off of the cane. Runs in the family. He’d told this man that the _devil_ runs in the family, and somehow that’s translated to _good._

 

And it’s ridiculous. Matt’s only known this man for a few minutes too. The man knows nothing about him, nothing about what Matt’s done and what he’s going to do. He knows _next_ to nothing about Matt’s father, his only knowledge based on the biased words of his loving son. Honestly, it should be making Matt angry. He should be furious that someone is making such a judgment of him after a minute, acting as though he knows, as though he _understands._

 

Matt’s not angry. Matt’s got tears in his eyes.

 

“I think it must have skipped a generation.” He admits, voice rough. The priest gives something that is a little gentler than a laugh.

 

“Somehow I doubt it.” He murmurs, voice unreadable. Then he claps his hands briskly. “But hey, you made it sound kind of like you were working on a deadline for your mortal sinning. And as much as I like talking to you, if you have to go…”

 

Matt’s eyes widen. How long has he been here? He should have left minutes ago. He’d completely lost track of time, too busy trying to understand this priest’s somewhat warped logic.

 

He stands again, readying his cane and sliding open the confessional door.

 

“Thank you.” Matt tells the priest, and he finds he actually means it. He still thinks the priest is probably insane, and that even if he isn’t he doesn’t understand Matt at all, but Matt feels better now than he ever has after a confession. It’s a good feeling. “For reminding me, and for…what you said.”

 

What the priest said might not be true, but it’s comforting to know that someone _thinks_ it is.

 

“Mm-hmm, no problem.” The priest says sunnily. “That’s what I’m here for.”

 

“I guess it is.” Matt muses to himself, pensive.

 

He’s never really thought of the priests in the confessional as motivational speakers. Usually they’re quite grim, listening in sometimes-judgmental silence and then giving you terse instructions on penance. But priests _are_ supposed to guide, aren’t they? Shepherds for their flock, showing them the right way to go with a gentle crook. That’s just not the way it happens. It’s always been judgment, _punishment_ for Matt. He hasn’t been to confession for so long, and he’s not sure if he’s remembering it wrong or if this priest is just different.

 

Matt gets the feeling it’s the second option.

 

“It’s just the truth, about you being good. Lying’s a sin too, you know, and I try to set a positive example.” The priest is chattering away so brightly, and Matt can’t quite—

 

“Why did you become a priest?” There is a brief silence, just long enough to be interesting.

 

“Gossip. People like you are a goldmine.” The priest replies glibly, and as though he can tell that Matt’s glaring, he laughs, bright and airy. “Why, am I that bad at my job?”

 

“No.” Matt offers slowly. “Not bad, just...different.” The priest laughs again. Matt’s never heard of a priest that laughs so much, happy and free.

 

“I get that a lot, delicate pause and all. Apparently lots of people think I'm '...different'.” The priest tells him, voice wry. “I’ve decided to take it as a compliment.”

 

To Matt’s surprise, he is almost sure he _meant_ it as one. And he needs to go, he needs to get this done tonight. The priest is right, he’s got a deadline—more literal than he’s comfortable with—and there’s not any time for bantering with laughing priests.

 

“Can I come back?” Matt asks instead of offering a polite ‘goodbye’. There’s no hesitation this time, not like when Matt asked about why he became a priest.

 

“Anytime you want.” The priest promises him warmly. “And if you weren’t scared off, you can ask for Foggy.”

 

“Foggy?” Matt asks, a little confused. “Do you mean the weather?” Judging by the heat and humidity, it’s sunny at the moment, so Matt’s not quite sure what the priest is talking about. Is this code?

 

“No, I’m talking about my name.” The priest corrects him patiently. Matt thinks about that for a second. Foggy. It's possibly the oddest name he's ever encountered. Is that a first name or a last name? It's hard to tell. 

 

“So you’re Father Foggy?” He wonders gamely. It’s a unique name, one he hasn’t heard before. A unique name for a unique priest. The priest snorts.

 

“No ‘Father’, please." He begs good-naturedly. "It makes me sound old. Just Foggy is fine.”

 

Matt’s not sure how he feels about that. He has an ingrained understanding that priests are to be treated with respect. Part of that respect is giving them their proper title, like you’d call a physician ‘Doctor’. It feels strange, to think about just cutting that part off, talking to a priest like they’re just someone you met on the street or over coffee.

 

But if Father Foggy—Just Foggy—wants Matt to, it would be rude to refuse. Besides, Matt’s getting out of a mortal sin with one rosary. He figures he can afford to be a little generous.

 

“Of course, Foggy.” The name feels odd rolling off his tongue, but not distasteful. Matt hesitates. This is the part in the conversation where he should give his own name, say that it’s nice to meet Foggy, simple things like that. But Matt’s not sure he wants Foggy to know his name. There is the vow of silence, yes, but how many people actually observe that nowadays? And Foggy seems nice, but he also knows more about Matt’s activities than anyone else. It’s dangerous.

 

“Don’t worry about it.” Foggy tells him kindly. “Most people don’t want to tell me. It’s a privacy thing.”

 

It is, but Matt wants to give him _something._

 

“Matt. It’s Matt.” Matt’s a common enough name that it would be hard to find him, and the priest usually stays in the booth until the confessor has left. Without a face or a last name, Matt should be relatively safe. Probably.

 

“Matt.” Foggy repeats dutifully. “Matt. Okay.”

 

“Okay.” Matt replies, a little awkward. He’s not quite sure what to do now. They’re still sort of talking. Does he just abruptly say goodbye and leave? Most of the time, the priest just says what they’re going to say and then returns to stony silence. Matt’s not really used to holding a conversation with one.

 

“Deadline, _Matt.”_ Foggy tells him, gently prodding. Matt isn’t sure if what’s spreading across his face is a frown or a smile. It feels a little like both. Confused, but not unhappy. “So, I suppose I should say: I absolve you of your sins, in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit." He laughs. "There, you're absolved. Now go have a lovely sin."

 

Matt decides it’s a smile. He grins and goes.

 

* * *

 

“I was hoping I could confess to Foggy.”

 

Matt feels incredibly awkward. It's been a week since he met the strange priest, and Matt can't stop thinking about it. He’d wandered into the church today without thinking, his feet leading him halfway across the city to do so. And Foggy’s not in the confessional. It’s not during the standard times for the sacrament—Matt would have to ask him to take time out of his schedule, just to listen to Matt.

 

And that’s a lot to ask. Foggy’s only met him once, so there’s no reason for him to give Matt special treatment. Matt should probably just kneel down and say a few quick prayers, or else turn right around and leave, but instead he’s here asking for Foggy to see him specially.

 

“ _Father_ Nelson is currently in his office, readying for the Holy Mass.” The nun tells him tartly, a strong note of censure in her voice for Matt’s use of Foggy’s given name instead, without the title. Matt is a little annoyed at the rebuke, since Foggy is the one who told him to. “He does have hours for offering the Sacrament of Reconciliation, if you’d care to read the schedule." Matt blinks at her, a bit taken aback in the face of her blatant hostility. Most people tiptoe around him when they see his handicap. They don't tell him to read things.

 

“Seriously?” He asks wryly, shaking his cane a little pointedly at her. “You want me to _read_ a schedule?”

 

“I could read it to you.” The nun says without a hint of remorse for her words. Actually, she sounds a little accusatory. It’s not a kind offer, it’s an irritated one.

 

“Fine, you can read me the schedule, _if_ you ask him first.” Matt bargains stubbornly. The nun does not seem impressed by his bargaining skills.

 

“There is a time and a place for confession, sir, and this is not it. Father Nelson will refuse, I assure you.” She chides tartly, and Matt feels like if she had a ruler she'd be smacking him with it. Classic crabby old-school Catholic, nothing like Foggy at all. Matt grits his teeth in a smile.

 

“So ask him.” He requests politely. Now it’s become a matter of pride, proving a point. Foggy might still say no, but Matt’s got to try now that he's been told not to. He does have to confess _a lot_ of sins, and now he’ll have to add wanting to swear at a nun to that list too. “If he says no, I’ll leave.”

 

The nun obviously cannot resist such a tempting offer. She’s clearly as fond of Matt as he is of her. Matt’s never given such an awful first impression before.

 

“Wait here.” She orders, like Matt’s going to go rob the tabernacle unless she tells him not to. Matt hears her shoes clicking away, and tilts his head a little to listen better. Eavesdropping, yet another sin he’ll have to confess to.

 

The nun tells Foggy that there is a very rude man who wants to interrupt Foggy’s preparation and ask for repentance that he clearly does not deserve at the moment, and Foggy laughs.

 

“Oh, awesome! I was worried he wouldn’t come back.” Foggy enthuses, immediately knowing who she's talking about. Matt's not sure if he should be offended by that, but instead he's just pleased. Foggy remembers him, and from his tone he remembers him fondly. “Sure, tell him to wait in the confessional and I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

 

Matt smirks at the nun when she storms out of Foggy’s office, radiating disapproval. He settles himself on the uncomfortable bench in the confessional, and a minute later Foggy slides in across from him on the other side of the screen.

 

“Hey, Matt! Still living a life of iniquity and sin?” Foggy asks, bubbly and bright, and Matt relaxes before he even realizes he tenses. It's okay. This is okay. Foggy sounds happy to see him, not a hint of disgruntlement or reluctance in his tone about being called away in the middle of important work. He sounds  _happy,_ like he was hoping Matt would come back and now all of Foggy's dreams have come true. Matt smiles, warm and victorious and just a bit smug. He can't help it.

 

“Absolutely.”

 

* * *

 

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.”

 

“Same sin as last time?” Foggy guesses dryly, and Matt smiles and shakes his head.

 

“New one.” He answers with a bit more pride than he should, considering he's confessing to a sin. “Same kind though.”

 

Another night, another fight. A _fun_ fight, too, the kind that gets his blood going for days. He’s not sure he wants to say that part out loud though, especially to his priest. Foggy’s amazingly kind about this, letting Matt off light and never seeming to doubt that Matt’s got a reason for his sinning. A good one. Foggy’s kind, but that might be just because he doesn’t know the details. He might be thinking Matt is just another guilty Catholic, and his ‘mortal sin’ is sleeping with another man or something equally ordinary. Fill in the blank, a boring everyday mortal sin as opposed to what Matt does. A very _special_ kind of mortal sin.

 

“You really need to add some variety to your vices.” Foggy mutters under his breath, but it’s not as exasperated as Matt thinks it’s meant to be. “Still nothing specific, I suppose?”

 

He sounds hopeful, and Matt knows it’s because Foggy _wants_ to know the details. He’s been invested since that first time, and it doesn’t just seem to be a result of the mystery of Matt’s confessions. He seems  _happy_ when Matt starts talking, happy to help him, happy just to hear his voice.

 

The worst part is, Matt’s happy to hear Foggy too, and he thinks that’s probably not a good thing. He’s already gone to confession more times in a month than he’s gone in years. Striking up a friendship with the man who knows all of your sins, even it's just a vague awareness of them, does not seem very wise.

 

“Not this time.” Matt tells him gently. “Sorry.” Foggy sighs, resigned.

 

“It’s fine. I don’t need the specifics to absolve you. It would just be interesting to finally know _what_ I’m absolving.” He adds pointedly. Matt winces.

 

“Sorry.” He says again, not willing to surrender but also not wanting Foggy to be upset. “It was for the same _reason_.” He offers hesitantly.

 

The reason is another thing he hasn’t been specific about. All he’s said is that it’s to help people, to keep them safe. And unlike Matt’s explanation about the sinning, Foggy seems to find this explanation completely satisfactory. Matt has no idea why.

 

“Well, then. I suppose you’ll get the same penance.” Foggy says, and the way he says ‘penance’ doesn’t sound nearly as condemning as it should. It sounds more like ‘I suppose you’ll get the same fruit salad again for dessert. Honestly, Matt. You need to live a little.’ It’s bizarre to receive such a sentiment from a _priest_ regarding Matt’s sins.

 

“Oh. Thank you.” Matt nods determinedly. Foggy really is incredibly kind.

 

“Sure.” Foggy replies easily. “So, how has your week been? I haven’t seen you in a few days.”

 

It’s longer than Matt’s gone without confession in a while. The second time had gone well, although Matt had been skeptical that the phenomenon of loving confession would repeat. But it had, Foggy laughing and telling Matt that he was a good person, and that if he was sinning he was probably doing it for a good reason.

 

And it was just as ridiculous as the first time but also just as wonderful, and he’d come back, three days later instead of a week. And then two days. And then one. He’s been going to church every day to confess for weeks, and it’s not as though he doesn’t have _plenty_ of sins to confess to, but he doesn’t actually spend much time _confessing_ them. It’s the same vague sin, the same gentle penance, and the same Matt leaving with a smile on his face. He thinks Foggy is smiling too.

 

So Matt spends maybe a minute confessing, and they spend the rest of the time talking about anything that comes to mind. Work, friends, hobbies, likes and dislikes, childhood memories. Things that Matt hasn’t spoken of in years suddenly come easily when he’s speaking to Foggy. And Matt’s supposed to be talking. Not about what he actually _does_ talk about, but he’s almost got an excuse. Foggy really doesn’t, but now Matt knows his favorite food and movie and book and animal and also his favorite zombie apocalypse plan.

 

Foggy is the oddest priest Matt’s ever met, and also probably one of the oddest people.

 

“Something came up at work.” Matt tells him, and he sounds bizarrely like a husband explaining to his wife why he missed date night. “There was a case, and there were some issues.” He’d told Foggy about his career as a lawyer sometime around the second week, even though it really had nothing to do with confession. He’d just wanted the chance to complain to someone, blow off steam, and Foggy had listened patiently and never asked ‘okay, so when did you succumb to Satan’s charms in this story?’

 

“Did you win?” Foggy wonders, and Matt blinks.

 

“Well, yes.” He answers, bemused. “Obviously.” Foggy snorts.

 

“Pride, Matt. You get another Hail Mary for that.” He clearly doesn’t mean it. Foggy never enforces his penances. “Okay, so you won. Did you _want_ to?”

 

“Why would I not want to win?” Matt asks rhetorically. Foggy remains silent. After a moment, Matt sighs. There’s really not much point in lying. If anyone’s not going to judge him, it will be Foggy. “No. I didn’t want to win.”

 

“Yeah, I thought so.” Foggy sighs, quiet and kind and knowing. “Matt, if we’re talking about acts to relieve your conscience, I’d say leaving that place should top the list.”

 

Foggy doesn’t know _where_ Matt works, only that Matt hates it there. Matt thinks Foggy would hate Landman and Zack too—Foggy likes the quiet tranquility of a church, listening to people who need help and actually _giving_ it. Not the calculating ‘kindness’ of Landman and Zack. And Matt has done what he can, but it’s not enough, no one listens. It’s about the money to them, not the morality.

 

No one ever listens, not unless Matt _makes_ them. He thinks of a little girl crying, and the way that she’s halfway across the city now and laughing instead. As always, he gets a thrill of dark satisfaction when he remembers that he’s the one who did that. He helped someone, he helped when the law wasn’t enough anymore, and it _worked._

 

Apparently violence _does_ solve everything.

 

“I can’t just leave.” Matt responds, slumping a little on the bench. Foggy’s tried this three times already, trying to use quitting Matt’s job as an avant-garde kind of penance. Matt always takes the prayers instead, but now it’s constantly sitting the back of his mind. It’s impossible, but he still wants it. Very much. “I don’t know what you’d expect me to do. I can’t just live on the Eucharist alone, you know. The Body of Christ is nourishing for the spirit, but not nearly so much for the body of man.”

 

“But you could also have wine.” Foggy corrects him quickly. “Lots of wine. The Body and the Blood of Christ. That’s a balanced meal, right there.” Matt rolls his eyes, and Foggy—like always—seems to know exactly what he’s doing. “Okay, so start your own firm.” Matt gives an incredulous smile that is much closer to a scowl.

 

“That doesn’t tend to work out so well, especially in this economy.” He points out, terse. It's not as though Matt hasn't _thought_ about it, of course he has, but it's never been more than a ridiculous bout of wishful thinking. Foggy scoffs at Matt's scoffing, cheeky creature that he is.

 

“It’s _you,_ Matt. People will be lining up at the doors.” Foggy really sounds like he believes it, and Matt is once again baffled by the amount of faith that Foggy has in him as a person. Matt has no idea how Foggy has gotten it into his head that Matt is so talented. It’s true that Matt’s a good lawyer—a great one, in fact—but Foggy seems to think he’s some kind of anointed Atticus Finch. Good man, good lawyer, good everything. Matt doesn’t understand it all. It’s lovely, it never fails to make Matt smile, but he worries sometimes about what Foggy will think when he finds out that Matt’s _not_ good. Not at all.

 

“And I should just, what? Buy an office, put up a sign and sit there until someone wanders in?” Matt asks, a little amused by the thought even though he’s also frustrated that Foggy doesn’t seem to understand how impossible it is. “I can’t run the whole thing myself, Foggy.”

 

“So hire a secretary.” Foggy replies immediately, blunt. Matt asks the Lord for patience. He’s in a church, so maybe God will actually hear him this time.

 

“And pay her with _what?”_ He asks deliberately, playing with the strap on his cane like he always does when he needs to calm down. Foggy considers.

 

“Daily doses of your charming personality?” He offers, and Matt can’t help a sharp little bark of laughter at that.

 

“She’d go bankrupt in a week. It’s not a very valuable currency.”

 

“No way!” Foggy denies vehemently. “You’re the highlight of my day, man. I usually get people coming in to talk about swiping a pack of gum, or cheating on a test, or cheating on their _wife._ I don’t like that last one.” He mutters. “But you? You’re fun.”

 

Fun. Having Matt come in to confess his eternal guilt for his darker tendencies is fun, according to the oh-so-holy priest.

 

...It _is_ fun. What does that say about the two of them?

 

“I’m not sure everyone would agree with you, but thank you.” Matt tells him, pleased. He still can’t afford a secretary, and he still can’t leave Landman and Zack alone, but Foggy thinks he can and that’s warming. “I’d need more help. In the unlikely event that it actually did work out, I’d have more cases than I could handle by myself. And I’m sure the secretary would be lovely, but I highly doubt she’d have passed the bar exam.”

 

He expects Foggy’s enthusiasm to deflate at this admission, but to his surprise Foggy seems even _more_ excited.

 

“I could help with that, as long as you kept it at suspiciously specific hypotheticals. You can’t share names and stuff, obviously, but you could say everything else. And it’s not like I can squeal even if you _do_ use names. Vows, you know.” It’s a very sweet offer, but not one Matt can take him up on.

 

“You’re a priest.” Matt points out, trying to be gentle about it and not to sound disdainful. Foggy is an amazing priest—it’s not Matt saying he’s not good enough. It’s just that he’s not a lawyer, and that’s what Matt would need.

 

“Actually…” Foggy begins tentatively. Matt’s eyes snap up from their lowered position. It’s not like he can see Foggy’s face—even without the screen he knows is there, there’d still be no way to tell what expression Foggy was wearing. But it’s instinct to stare when someone’s completely shocked you to the core.

 

“You’re a _lawyer_?” He asks, disbelieving. Foggy shrugs, the sound of cloth shifting clear through the thin screen.

 

“Technically? Yeah. I’m out of practice, but yeah.”

 

Matt’s not quite sure what to do with this statement. Foggy’s a lawyer, or at least he _was_ a lawyer. His voice doesn’t sound much older than Matt’s. That means they might have gone to school around the same time. If seminary school is about three years, that means Foggy turned right back around after getting his law degree and went back to school to become a priest. Why would he go through three years of hellish law school if he was planning to be a priest?

 

...Unless maybe he _wasn’t_ planning to be a priest. Maybe he _was_ planning to be a lawyer, and something stopped him. Something changed his mind.

 

“Why did you become a priest?” Matt asks, the first time he’s done so since that first day. Again, there is the small pause, just enough that Matt can notice it, before Foggy answers.

 

“For the free booze. I told you wine and wafers was a balanced meal.” Foggy says, voice light and he’s _lying._ Even if it wasn’t the laziest excuse Matt has ever heard, he’d know from the heartbeat. A little jump, just once. Lie.

 

Matt wants to keep asking until Foggy tells him, but Matt’s got his own secrets. He won’t tell his to Foggy, so he can’t expect Foggy to tell Matt his. But one day, one day Matt _is_ going to tell him, and then he _is_ going to make Foggy tell him too. Matt’s a hypocrite—he loves keeping secrets, but he can never let others do the same.

 

“I’ll keep it in mind.” Matt tells him mildly. “So, standard punishment?” Foggy huffs in greatly affected indignation.

 

“ _Penance_ , Matt. Not punishment.” Foggy reminds him, exasperated. “And yeah, if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it. One rosary.”

 

It's probably a little late to be mentioning it, but Matt’s been feeling guilty for a month about this, and he’s already in confession. Might as well bite the bullet.

 

“I, ah, don’t actually _have_ a rosary.” Matt admits sheepishly. There is a long silence from the other side, and Matt winces.

 

“So what have you been doing when I told you to pray one?” Foggy asks him, and there’s only a tolerant sort of curiosity in his voice, no anger about Matt dodging a little on the details.

 

“I have been praying it.” Matt hastens to reassure Foggy. “Just mentally rather than bead by bead. Sometimes I miss one or two, but just sometimes. And I’m going to buy one, really.” He’s been saying that to himself for a month, but he can never find the right time. Instead he just says his prayers before bed, gets in as many repetitions as he can, and hopes for the best.

 

Foggy sighs, and the sound is somehow full of maddened affection. 

 

“Jesus, Matt.” Foggy groans piteously. “And that’s not taking the Lord’s name in vain. I am genuinely asking for divine intervention here so I don’t strangle you.” Matt winces again, guilty and caught. “You could have said something sooner. The rosary’s not important for most people, but I really think you should use one.”

 

“Why?” Matt wonders, confused and a little worried. Does Foggy think he needs more emphasis on his punishment— _penance_? Does Matt need to do more than other people in order to be forgiven?

 

“I think the beads would help calm you down.” Foggy tells him softly. “You said you like soothing sounds, and the beads sound nice when they click together. And it might be good for you, to have something solid to hold on to. I think you need that, sometimes.”

 

Matt twists the cane strap in his hands, something to hold on to. He’d never thought of the rosary as an anchor before. It was more of a prop than anything, an unnecessary ornament to prayer. But Foggy’s not talking about it as a spiritual focus. He’s talking about it as something to help _Matt_ , Matt in particular and not anyone else. He’s thought about it, what Matt might need to make things easier.

 

Matt swallows, throat tight.

 

“I’ll buy one.” He promises Foggy again, and he means it this time. If Foggy thinks it will help, it probably will. Foggy hums.

 

“You can have mine, if you want.” Foggy offers, almost absently. “I think you’d like it. Red crystal, just a little flashy but it can take a beating. I must have dropped it a million times since I got it, but it never breaks.”

 

Matt should say no. This is the sort of thing you say no to, an obligatory offer that no one actually expects to you accept. It’s Foggy’s rosary, and from the sound of things he’s had it for a long time. It’s probably important to him. Matt just taking it from him isn’t right. It isn’t kind. It's not a sin, but it almost is.

 

“Thank you.”

 

The rosary sounds beautiful, and Matt _wants_ it.

 

“Mm-hmm.” Foggy agrees happily, and he doesn’t sound upset that Matt said yes. He sounds quite pleased, actually, in a peaceful sort of way. “So, you want me to leave it on the bench and you can grab it after I go?” Matt is confused for a moment until he realizes what Foggy’s offering.

 

Foggy will leave, let Matt take the rosary and go without Foggy seeing his face. Matt remembers the way he was desperate to keep his anonymity at the start of this, wary of even giving his name. And Foggy had been fine with that too, just happy to help, but Matt had given the name anyway because it somehow felt right. He’s been talking to Foggy for more than a month, and Foggy’s never even seen him. Matt’s not used to other people feeling the way Matt does, never knowing what someone’s face looks like no matter how well you know them. And Matt can’t, he can never know what Foggy really looks like, but Foggy _can_ know what Matt looks like.

 

And just like the rosary, Matt wants it more than he should.

 

“You could just hand it to me now, if you’d like.” Matt offers, and he tries to make it sound casual but he fails spectacularly. Foggy doesn’t seem to mind the banked eagerness in Matt’s voice.

 

“Good idea.” Foggy tells Matt brightly. “Man, this is awesome. I feel like I’m opening a Christmas present. I know it’s going to be great, even if I don’t know what it is yet.”

 

Matt feels a pang of concern that Foggy’s not going to like this ‘Christmas present’, but it’s too late now. Matt offered, and Foggy accepted, and now Matt’s got to do it. He takes a deep breath and stands, carefully sliding open the confessional door. He hears Foggy doing the same, the soft sound magnified in the echoing church.

 

The sound lasts for a few moments, reverberating and then softening slowly before it vanishes. Foggy still hasn’t said anything.

 

“Hi.” Matt says awkwardly when the silence gets too long, shifting a little on his feet to curb the overwhelming desire to run. The tentative word seems to finally spur Foggy into action.

 

“Wow, you’re much cuter than I thought you’d be.” He tells Matt bluntly. “And I thought you’d be pretty freaking cute.”

 

Matt blinks, caught entirely off-guard by this opening line.

 

“Are you supposed to flirt with your parishioners?” He wonders dazedly, not uncomfortable but rather taken aback. Foggy shrugs, and it’s louder outside of the confessional, cloth against skin as his shoulders rise and dip. 

 

“Not really flirting, just a statement of fact. You're a total dreamboat.” Foggy claims breezily, not seeming at all concerned about calling his male parishioner a dreamboat. Is dreamboat ever really just a statement of fact? It doesn't really sound very objective as a measurement. “Relax, I’m not going to jump your bones.”

 

“Good?” Matt offers, unsure. “And thank you, I suppose.” He’d been worried Foggy wouldn’t like what he saw. Foggy thinking Matt is cute is a very positive reaction. Matt’s pretty sure he’s _not_ cute—attractive maybe, judging by other people’s reactions to him, but not _cute._ Puppies are cute. Matt is not a puppy. Matt's not a dreamboat either, no matter what Foggy's supposed facts imply.

 

But then Foggy always does this. He only sees the good parts in Matt, no matter how much Matt tells him differently, no matter how much he hints at the darkness.

 

“Sure.” Foggy waves Matt's thanks off magnanimously. “So, rosary?” There’s the slight clacking of beads knocking together from Foggy shaking it gently. Matt nods, holding out his hands.

 

He feels, strangely, like he’s waiting for alms. Alms for the poor.

 

The beads are smooth, worn—Matt was right, Foggy must have had it for years. They’ve got a comforting weight to them, made of a good quality crystal that is heavier than glass. And they’re warm, very warm. Foggy was holding them in his hand, and now they’re carrying the heat his skin, heat that’s soaking into Matt’s palm.

 

Foggy’s right, the rosary is sturdy. It doesn’t crack when Matt squeezes it far too hard, yanking it back towards him like he’s afraid it’s going to be taken away. He is afraid, actually. It _is_  beautiful, he can tell that already, and it feels right in his hand. He doesn’t want to lose it.

 

“Thank you.” He says again, voice cracking where the rosary won’t.

 

“I was right.” Foggy muses, instead of the traditional ‘you’re welcome’. “Red _does_ suit you.” He laughs, bright and clear as sunshine in summer. “Honestly? It looks much better on you than it does on me.”

 

Matt smiles, holding the beads harder. They can take it, he knows. They can take a beating.

 

“Thank you.” He says again, a third time.

 

A trinity of thank you, and it sounds more like a prayer than a Hail Mary ever could.

 

* * *

 

Matt wears the rosary. The only times he takes it off are when he’s in the shower and when he’s in the mask.

 

The first scenario is just common sense. The second one should be something deeper, a feeling of betrayal for exposing a holy article to blood and violence. Sinning.

 

Matt leaves it at home not because he is guilty, but because he doesn’t want the beads to break. The second he gets home, he’s reaching out and wrapping the rosary around his wrist, over the bloody bandages and the dirt. He can’t relax without it, without the comforting weight and the delicate chime of the beads knocking together. It’s a light sound, cheerful, and it reminds him of Foggy’s laugh.

 

Matt can’t sleep without the rosary anymore.

 

He sees Foggy every day now. He goes to work, goes to church, and then goes to fight. Then, sometimes, he goes right back to church.

 

Foggy’s not there, that late at night. _No one_ is there this late at night. The doors are locked, but locks have never been a problem for Matt. He works confidently, waits until he hears the tumblers click into place, and then slips inside.

 

He likes lighting the candles best. It used to be his favorite part of going to church when he was younger, when he could see the merry flames dancing. He hadn’t understood then, that every one of those lights was someone begging for help. He’d just thought they were pretty.

 

He’d keep lighting candles, and once they were lit he’d dart his fingers through them, just quick enough that he wouldn’t get burned. And sometimes he _would_ get burned, a flash of pain when he wasn’t fast enough, but he didn’t stop even when it hurt. He wanted to see the flames dance, and it was worth the pain. It was a dare, and Matt loved it.

 

It’s too easy now, his fingers too quick. He would have to _let_ himself get burned now, and he’s not quite that far gone. Not yet. So he flicks his fingers through, no fight and no pain, and he watches the flames—flames are the _only_ things that Matt can watch anymore, his whole world on fire.

 

He watches the flames, and he smells the heavy smoke and melting wax, and he hears the guttering of the candles. And there’s Foggy too, stronger with the candles than anywhere else. Foggy spends a lot of time here, Matt can tell. Never when Matt is there, but he must go every day.

 

Matt looks at the flames, and he wonders which one is Foggy, begging for help.

 

“Pretty sure I locked those doors.” Foggy accuses mildly, and Matt freezes, then hisses then the flames finally manage to catch him. He cradles his burned hand to his chest—just a sting, won’t even blister, but it still hurts. “Yikes. You need a bandage for that?” Foggy asks, a little guilty. Matt shakes his head.

 

“I’ve had worse.” He tells Foggy honestly. “Sit?” He pats the ground next to him, and winces when he realizes that he’s been sitting on cold, hard marble. Not the most welcoming of offers.

 

Foggy settles down next to him a moment later anyway, easy and comfortable.

 

“My mom hated when I’d do this.” Foggy muses, and Matt watches as the fire of Foggy meets the fire of the candles, a swift motion like a snake striking. Making the flames dance, just like Matt does. “She was always sure I’d hurt myself.” He chuckles quietly. “More than once she was right, but I could never quite get myself to stop. It was so much fun.”

 

Matt smiles tentatively, glad that Foggy’s not disturbed by Matt tempting luck, gambling pain for pleasure. He reaches out and does the same, flicking his fingers through the same candle.

 

“Wow, you’re fast.” Foggy compliments him, impressed. “You’re also breaking and entering.” It’s not a complaint. It sounds more entertained than anything.

 

“Are you sure you locked the doors?” Matt tries weakly, and Foggy snorts. Matt bites his lip. “I wasn’t going to steal anything. I just like—“ He waves helplessly towards the candles.

 

“I know.” And Foggy sounds like he _does_ know, even if that’s not possible. “You really shouldn’t break in, though. I would have given you a key if you’d asked.” Matt tenses in surprise.

 

“A key?” He asks incredulously. “You’d give a random person a key to your church?”

 

“You’re hardly a random person, Matt.” Foggy informs him gently. “I trust you.”

 

 _You shouldn’t._ Matt wants to tell him. _You have no idea what I do. You offer forgiveness, but you have no idea what you’re forgiving._

 

“Why are you here so late?” He asks instead. He hadn’t heard Foggy come in, too distracted by the candles, but when he’d entered the church there had been no one there. Foggy must have come after Matt did, and it’s the middle of the night. Matt thanks God that he changed before he came here, or else Foggy would understand just how stupid it is to trust him.

 

“Praying.” Foggy says lightly. “It’s sort of what we priests do.”

 

Matt wonders what he’s praying for. He came to his church in the dark, when he should have been asleep, to pray for something. To light a candle. What could be that important?

 

“Why did you become a priest?” It’s not fair. Matt promised himself that he’d let Foggy keep his secrets until Matt was ready to share his, but he can’t quite let himself do it. He wants to know. He needs to know. But every time he asks…

 

“Priests get an automatic pass for heaven.” Foggy tells him. “Get Out Of Hell Free card.”

 

Foggy always lies, but he doesn’t insult Matt by actually trying to deceive him. He just offers a joking answer and moves along. It’s infuriating.

 

“That’s not how it works.” Matt argues, but he’s smiling while he says it. Foggy’s lies are always entertaining, and one day they’re not going to be lies anymore.

 

“Says you.” Foggy replies childishly. Then he sobers. “So, why are you here? Urgent moral dilemma or just latent pyromania?” Matt laughs.

 

“A bit of both, I suppose.” He admits cautiously. “I’ve had a rough night, and the candles calm me down. They always have.”

 

“Why was it a rough night?” Foggy prods softly. Matt shrugs vaguely, and then relents a moment later. He needs to talk to someone about it, and Foggy’s the only one who is even remotely likely to have an idea what Matt’s talking about.

 

“I got in a fight.” He murmurs, and he doesn’t sound shaken enough. He sounds dull, flat. Like it’s something he’s used to, and it is. “I get into a lot of fights, and I’m going to get into a lot more.”

 

It’s the closest he’s ever come to telling Foggy the truth. Matt’s talked about his temper, and Foggy’s never condemned him for it, but Matt had toned it down. He gets frustrated when he can’t help someone, he gets annoyed when one of his coworkers says something unkind to someone else, he gets upset when he realizes he forgot his wallet. Not that he gets angry sometimes, he gets _furious_ and he needs to hit something, hit _someone,_ to get the anger out. Someone who deserves it, always, but still someone, and a man who’s taken a vow of peace would be horrified by it.

 

Foggy would be horrified by it.

 

“Yes.” Foggy says serenely, and Matt almost burns his hand again.

 

“Yes?” He asks, bewildered. “Are you saying that I _should_ get into fights?” It seems highly unlikely. Foggy shakes his head. He has very long hair, Matt notices, brushing his shoulders with any slight movement. Longer hair than any other priest Matt’s ever met, just another way that Foggy’s _different._

 

“I’m saying that you will. You know it, and I know it.” Matt frowns, shaking his head. “Matt, I know _you._ You show up some days with bruises on your face, and from the way you move you’ve got bruises a dozen other places too. And you _forget_ about them. You’re so used to getting hurt that you don’t even remember that you _are_  hurt.”

 

“I remember.” Matt denies. He does. He is used to them, so he doesn’t react as much as other people might, but he does notice in a distant sort of way. He wonders if he should have insisted on the confessional, after the rosary. Instead they’d just settled in anywhere, on one of the benches, on the steps of the church, in Foggy's office over surprisingly delicious lattes. And because he let Foggy see him, Foggy saw the bruises too, and that’s dangerous.

 

“Okay.” Foggy indulges. “But the pain doesn’t stop you, and with a temper like yours? It’s inevitable. But _since_ I know you, I know that you only pick fights when it’s for someone else.” Matt looks away. Foggy reaches out to take his hand—not the burned one, but it still almost hurts, sending a shock through Matt’s body. “You tell me you want to help people, Matt. When you say you’re sinning, I think you’re doing it to help people. That’s why I only give you one rosary.”

 

“Why?” Matt whispers. He doesn’t _understand._ Foggy sighs.

 

“I wouldn’t give you any if I thought you’d let me. You punish yourself enough, Matt. You’ve got more bruises than most people have prayers.” Foggy squeezes his hand. “Did you win your fight?” Matt nods mutely. “Did you want to win?” Just like the case. Like it’s Matt’s job. Matt nods again. “Good.”

 

“You don’t even know what I was fighting about.” Matt says, wretched. Foggy squeezes his hand again, shifting closer until their shoulders brush.

 

“So tell me.” Foggy orders gently. “Let me understand.” He moves even closer, and Matt can smell his shampoo, bright and sweet with the smoky incense lingering in his hair. He breathes in sharply and leans towards it, wanting to get more of the scent. And it’s warm, more than the heat of the candles. Soft warm, the kind you get from sitting near a fireplace when it’s cold or from huddling under a blanket fresh from the dryer.

 

“I don’t know if you can.” Matt admits, and Foggy sighs, moving to rest his head against Matt’s shoulder.

 

“Let me try.” Foggy begs, and Matt can feel soft hair tickling against his throat and Foggy’s head heavy on his shoulder and Foggy’s hand warm in his, and he wants…

 

He doesn’t want to tell Foggy. He wants to kiss him instead.

 

“Alright.” Matt says instead of turning and leaning down and _taking._ He allows himself one indulgence, tilting his head until he can press just the slightest kiss against Foggy’s hair, light enough that Foggy won’t feel it, not _ever,_ and then he begins to speak.

 

They dart their fingers through the flame as they talk, and Matt doesn’t get burned. Not once.

 

* * *

 

“Bless me, Father, for I have—“

 

Matt stops, breath catching. Foggy doesn’t smell right. He’s still Foggy, the bright shampoo and the smoky incense, but there’s something else there now. Salt. Musk.

 

Sex.

 

There’s a surprisingly sweet edge to it, not sugary but much less bitter than Matt is used to when he smells the familiar tang on people. And the salt’s not just from the sex—there’s sweat too, the kind you work up when you’ve been trying  _very_ hard.

 

It’s savory, strong, and Matt realizes that it’s fresh enough that Foggy must have done it today, and then just pulled on his shirt and collar.  No shower, no nothing. The sweat and sex are still on his skin, under his clothes and painting his body with sweet and salt.

 

Matt licks his lips, and he can almost _taste_ it.

 

“You alright there?” Foggy asks, amused. “By this time, you’re usually halfway through a list of all the reasons you’re going to hell.” He laughs. “Not that I don’t like the change, believe me. The lack of apparent misery is novel yet intriguing. But I miss hearing your voice.”

 

He sounds happy, relaxed. Too relaxed. The lethargic sort of bliss you get when you’re sleepy and satisfied, and Foggy must have done it within an hour. It’s early—he might have rolled out of bed, sticky and rumpled, and come straight into church. He might have been lying in his bed an hour ago, over the sheets and naked and gasping. 

 

“Matt? You okay there?” Foggy asks, and he seems a little concerned now.

 

Nobody else. Foggy only smells like himself, which means he must have been alone on the bed, whimpering and writhing. And Matt wonders if he was thinking of anybody while he did it, if he was imagining it was someone else’s hands on him the whole time.

 

“Matt? Seriously, I’m going to come over there if you don’t let me know you’re alive in the next ten seconds.”

 

Foggy shifts to get up, and there’s just the slightest sound of slick, sliding wetness. Inside. Foggy had gotten his fingers wet and pressed them inside, hot and tight, and he used his own fingers to spread himself open. And he’d been thinking of someone, he _had_ to have been.

 

Matt can’t breathe, because if he breathes the scent gets stronger and he can’t take it. He feels too hot and dizzy and aren’t priests supposed to take a vow of _chastity_? No one really does that part, Matt knows, but he hadn’t thought…

 

“Matt?”

 

Matt shudders.

 

“Why did you become a priest?” He whispers, and it’s a cracked and broken plea.

 

 _Why did you do this? Why did_ God _do this, make you so close and warm to me when He knew I could never touch you? Why couldn’t you have been something else, anything else, and let me have you? Why did you have to become a_ priest _?_

Foggy sighs wearily. He sounds wistful, not miserable but tinged just along with edges with soft melancholy.

“It seemed like a good idea at the time.”

* * *

 

Matt can’t sleep without the rosary anymore, so he wears it to bed every night.

 

 _This_ Matt feels guilt for, this is a betrayal. Not the fighting, but this. There is no defense or reason for what he does, wrapping the beads around his wrist and _touching,_ smooth crystal sliding against his skin as he moves and arches and moans.

 

It’s not the rosary itself. It’s the knowledge that Foggy’s touched it, that he’s been running his fingers over it for years and years, that the smoothness Matt feels is from Foggy pressing and stroking and wearing away the roughness bit by bit.

 

And this is hell, this burning need and the knowledge that he’s condemning himself more with every moment. This is heaven, this soaring bliss and the way Matt can almost, _almost_ feel Foggy touching him back.

 

He comes, and the way he murmurs Foggy’s name is a prayer. It’s possibly the worst thing Matt’s ever done, and he’s going to do it again. And again. Just like the fighting, just like the candles, wickedness seems to be an addiction Matt can never escape.

 

_Thou shalt have no other gods before Me._

_Thou shalt not covet. Thou shalt not covet. Thou shalt not covet..._

 

_Foggy._

 

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.”

* * *

 

Foggy isn’t at the church.

 

Matt has come to confess, not that he’s sinned but that he needs Foggy to tell him that it’s okay to. He needs Foggy to tell him to pray a rosary, so he can pretend for one moment that it’s right when he loops the beads around his wrist and let himself _want._

 

But Foggy’s not there, and the beads feel suddenly too heavy and sharp when the nun tells him that Father Nelson is in the hospital. There was an accident, she says. He was visiting a friend, an Elena Cardenas who has known him since he was a child. The bombs went off, and he was hurt. He was hurt badly.

 

Matt folds up his cane, takes off his glasses, and _runs._

 

“Matt, it’s not a good idea.” Claire tells him gently, for the dozenth time. “The doctors said no visitors.”

 

“The doctors don’t _know_ him.” Matt snarls. “He’ll want to see me. Ask him. He will.” Just like he did when Matt wandered back into his church. Foggy was happy to see him, to offer comfort. It's Matt's turn to comfort now, to soothe and save. Claire sighs.

 

“Maybe he would want to, normally, but not right now.” She says softly. “He’s not…” She hesitates.

 

“He’s not what?” Matt asks, dread creeping through him. Is Foggy not getting better? Is he worse than Matt thought? Is he hurt, bleeding, dying?

 

“He’s not doing so well.” Claire says finally, reluctant. “I read his chart. There’s been—he was having a panic attack when they brought him in, hyperventilating and thrashing around, making the bleeding worse. They had to sedate him, and he hasn’t said a word since.” She takes a steadying breath. “And there have been…nightmares. They’ve tried giving him something, but he won’t take it.”

 

“You have to let me see him.” Matt breathes, numb and sick. He should have run faster, gotten here sooner. How long has Foggy been lying in this cold place, terrified and alone? “Claire, you have to.”

 

“He’s reacted badly to everyone else who goes in, Matt.” Claire informs him, regretful. “That’s why they said no visitors. They don’t want to make him worse.”

 

Matt’s not ‘everyone else’. Matt is the man who’s been talking to Foggy every day for a month, that understands what it feels like to hold his hand and hear Foggy laugh and know that everything’s okay, just for a second. Matt’s the man who loves him.

 

“I need to talk to him, Claire.” Matt begs, and it’s weak and desperate. “Please.”

 

Claire’s quiet for a moment, and Matt knows she’s fighting with herself. She wants to do her job and do what’s best for the patient, but she also wants to believe that Matt knows what he’s doing and that he can help.

 

“You leave the second he wants you to.” Claire orders sharply. “You get a nurse, and you do not go back in. Ever.”

 

Matt nods quickly, relieved. Foggy won’t need a nurse. He won’t. Matt _can_ help.

 

It takes time and a certain amount of trickery, but eventually Claire leaves him at the door and lets Matt enter the room carefully.

 

Foggy’s heart spikes when he hears the door open. It’s too fast, far too fast. His breathing is too quick too, sharp and stuttering. Scared. Terrified.

 

“Foggy.” Matt tries softly, staying where he is. He doesn’t want to make it worse by advancing and seeming aggressive. “Foggy, it’s me. It’s Matt, okay?”

 

Foggy gasps, and his heart gets even quicker. Is he scared of _Matt?_

 

“Do you want me to leave?” Matt asks, voice thick. The voice makes his chest hurt.

 

He’s not sure what he’ll do if Foggy is scared of him. Foggy knows what Matt does, and he might have already heard what people are saying. The bombs hurt him, they’re what put him in the hospital, and everyone thinks Matt’s the one who set them. What if Foggy does too?

 

“Stay.” Foggy whispers, and it’s an awful sound, rough from disuse and soreness. Sore from screaming. “Matt.”

 

Matt breathes out shakily in relief. Not scared, at least not of Matt. Foggy wants him to stay.

 

“Can I come closer?” Matt asks cautiously? “Just a little bit? A step?” Foggy’s hair brushes against the thin, cheap material of the hospital gown when he shakes his head. Matt closes his eyes, pained.

 

“Not just a step. Closer. Will you—“ Foggy stops, unable to finish the thought for a moment. “Can I touch you? Please?”

 

Matt makes himself take slow steps across the room instead of sprinting. Foggy might still be skittish.

 

“On the bed or next to it?” He prods, and Foggy hesitates.

 

“On?” He chooses finally, and Matt nods, careful not to shift the mattress too much when he sits. He holds out his hand but waits for Foggy to take it, lets him make the choice.

 

“You’re hurt.” Foggy rasps, clutching at Matt’s hand. Foggy’s hand is too cold, but Matt’s is warm and he can keep it there as long as Foggy needs to feel warm too.

 

“Only a little.” Matt promises, squeezing his hand. “I’m feeling better already.” He’s sore and aching, but he’s had worse. He’s not sure that Foggy has. “How are you feeling?”

 

It’s a dumb question. Foggy seems to agree, because he gives a small snort.

 

“Peachy.” He mutters, voice still rough. “Sorry. I don’t like…” He stops, clears his throat to try and clear away the hoarseness a little. “I’m not a big fan of getting stabbed.”

 

Matt tenses.

 

 _Do you have much experience in getting stabbed?_ He wants to ask. The bitterness in Foggy voice says he does, and that’s terrifying. Who tried to hurt Foggy, and how many bones can Matt break before he risks killing them? He’ll have to ask Claire.

 

“Neither am I.” He admits, trying to keep his voice soothing and light. Keep the darkness out, keep the devil locked away for now. Right now Foggy needs someone soft and warm, to help him feel safe. “But it looks like we both got through it okay.”

 

“Ish.” Foggy agrees, and it’s still too husky but Matt can hear the humor in it, the humor he loves so much. “Bombs?”

 

His voice is curious now, grim, but not accusatory. Matt could almost cry—Foggy doesn’t think he did it. Matt didn’t even have to explain, beg for him to understand. Foggy just knows.

 

“I don’t know.” He says, even though he wants to tell Foggy that it’s over, that Matt took care of everything. “I’m going to find out though, and when I do they’re going to _pay_.”

 

Too sharp, too bloody, Matt curses himself. He can’t be soft even if he tries. He can pretend for a while, but not for long. The monster keeps fighting its way out.

 

“Wrath.” Foggy admonishes, but it’s teasing and warm. Still too weak, but he’s there. Foggy is still there.

 

“Sorry.” Matt apologizes sincerely, ashamed. Foggy huffs in laughter, soft and careful of his throat.

 

“Used to it.” He claims dryly. “You get wrath a lot.” Matt winces, abashed. “Not a bad thing, Matt.”

 

“It’s a deadly sin.” Matt points out, puzzled. How can it not be a bad thing? Foggy huffs in laughter, only coughing a little.

 

“You seem pretty alive to me.” He remarks, and then coughs again. And again.

 

“Water.” Matt mutters urgently. “We need water. I’m going to get you—“ He starts to stand, but Foggy pulls at his hand.

 

“I’m fine.” He promises weakly. “Stay?”

 

Matt sits again, nodding. The way Foggy asked is fragile in a way that makes Matt scared and more than a little angry.

 

Foggy’s joking and teasing him, but he’s still scared. His heart has calmed down considerably, but there’s still a sense of anxiety, fight or flight.

 

And that’s not from this time. Claire said it was sudden, a clear hit through and through. Shrapnel, glass, and it had happened within a moment of the bombs going off. That would give Foggy no time to panic, to feel the need to flee. He wouldn’t even have had time to think.

 

Which means that it wasn’t the glass hitting him, it was what he felt after the glass. Panic attacks and nightmares. Memories.

 

_I’m not a big fan of getting stabbed._

Matt wonders when it happened. Was it recent? Foggy has never smelled like blood until now, so it couldn’t have been any time after he met Matt. He doesn’t move with stiffness, so it must be an older memory. Was it when he was a child, or more recent? In law school?

 

Something changed Foggy’s mind about being a lawyer. Something sent him running, made him choose to spend another three years hiding away from the world and learning religion instead of law.

 

“Why did you become a priest?” Matt whispers. It’s not the right time. He should be offering vague, soothing assurances that everything will be alright, holding Foggy’s hand until Foggy feels safe and comfortable. He shouldn’t be interrogating him.

 

But Matt needs to know. This is the biggest piece of the puzzle he’s ever gotten. He’d never even considered anything like this. He’d thought maybe Foggy had just been inspired by someone, or had an epiphany, or something else benign. Happy, Foggy always seems so _happy._ How could this have happened to him?

 

“I became a priest so I could remember that people like you still exist.” Foggy tells him quietly, and it’s not a lie but it’s not the whole truth either. When Matt opens his mouth to ask again, Foggy sighs. “Later, Matt.” He beseeches. “I’ll tell you later.”

 

And that’s the whole truth. Foggy _will_ tell him later, Matt knows it. And he wants to know now, but he can wait a little longer. Until Foggy’s ready to tell him, Matt will just make sure that Foggy never has to worry about this, keep the memories away. No more hospitals. No more blood.

 

“I’ll call the nurse to bring you water.” Matt offers gently, then considers. “No, ice cubes. Ice cubes are better, right? You can suck on them, and they’re cold. I’ll ask for ice cubes. Maybe popsicles. Do you want popsicles?” Foggy laughs, and it almost sounds like it doesn’t hurt.

 

“Let the nurses do the nursing.” He says fondly. “You just be Matt, and it’ll be perfect.”

 

Matt really hopes so, but he doubts it. So they wait for the water, and Foggy only flinches a little when the nurse comes in. It's easy to calm him back down again, stroking his hair and reminding him that he's safe and Matt's going to keep him that way. Foggy sighs, some time later, squeezing Matt's hand and tugging him closer.

 

"I wish you'd been there." 

 

Matt doesn't know if he's talking about the bombings, or before, when he found out the _first_ time he didn't like being stabbed. When he got the memories, when he got the nightmares, when he got the scar. Either way, the answer is the same. Matt squeezes Foggy's hand back and tries to smile.

 

"Me too."

 

* * *

 

Foggy finds him in the candle room.

 

“You know, sanctuary isn’t actually a thing. Just because you hide in a church doesn’t mean you didn’t commit a crime.”

 

Matt winces.

 

“I’m sorry.” He whispers. “I didn’t know where else to go.” Foggy snorts.

 

“You got blood all over my floors. I had to spend all night mopping it up before the nuns showed up, and then you _ran._ I came to check on you, and I made _soup_ , Matt. I stole Sister Sandy’s soup for you, and you didn’t even bother to tell me you were leaving.”

 

“I’m sorry about the soup too.” Matt offers weakly. He’s heard Sister Sandy’s soup is enough to tempt a man to idolatry. “And I didn’t want to run. I just, I needed to—“ He can’t think of the right words. Foggy can.

 

“You needed to _run,_ because that’s what you do. You run, and you fight, and you pray because you _hate_ that you run and fight.” Foggy tells him calmly. “And then you do it all again. I know, Matt.”

 

“That’s not true.” Matt argues lowly, even though it is. Every word. He just doesn’t want Foggy to know that. He wants Foggy to think the way he did before, to believe that Matt’s a good man. He doesn’t want Foggy to know about the devil.

 

“Matt, you’ve spent months trying every day to convince me that you’re a monster.” Foggy sighs. “Is me knowing one flaw about you really that awful?”

 

 _Yes._ Matt thinks. _Because it means that you see me, and you’ll see more. This is the just the beginning. You’ll leave, and I’ll lose you._

“It’s not a flaw.” He lies through his teeth. “I’m doing it to help people. I put Fisk in jail. I tore down his empire. I did it _because_ I know how to run and how to fight. It’s a good thing. It’s a blessing.”

 

“So why do you keep confessing to it?” Foggy asks quietly, and Matt flinches, swallowing hard. Foggy sighs again. “Why do you keep asking me to punish you?”

 

“I don’t.” Matt grits out. “I confess for what I do, not what I am.”

 

“We _are_ what we do, Matt.” Foggy tells him gently, and he sounds tired. “And that’s something that you can’t run from. You can’t make it bleed, and you can’t make it stop.”

 

Matt laughs bitterly.

 

“Is this finally the priest, then?” He ponders, somewhat harshly. “Is this the fire and brimstone speech for the poor souls that can’t be saved?” He laughs bitterly again, running a hand through his hair, feeling too hot and too sick and too everything awful all at once. “Because I don’t need your speeches and I don’t need your pity.”

 

“Jesus Christ, Matt.” Foggy breathes, stunned. “Do you really think I’d do that to you?”

 

Matt laughs yet again. He can’t seem to stop, even though it hurts.

 

“I don’t know!” He gasps. “I don’t understand you. You keep telling me it’s fine and now it’s suddenly not. I get blood on your floors and suddenly I’m a sinner.”

 

And it’s true. It’s true, but Matt doesn’t want it to be.

 

Foggy reaches out and touches his arm gently. Matt’s body twitches, wanting to lean in and flinch away at the same time.

 

“I said you are what you do.” Foggy reminds him softly. “You do good, and you _are_ good.”

 

This is what Matt wanted. He wanted Foggy to keep being fooled, keep thinking that Matt was perfect, but now that he has it he _hates_ it. He’d rather have Foggy hate him than have Matt lie to him. And Foggy doesn’t understand.

 

Matt can make him understand.

 

“I want to fuck you.” He murmurs idly, and he hears Foggy swallow, fingers tightening on Matt’s arm. “I think about it all the time. You tell me to go home and pray a rosary, and I go home and think about fucking you while I’m praying it.”

 

“Matt…” Foggy starts, wary. Matt ignores him.

 

“I think about it in church too.” He adds, cool and calm. “You laugh, and I want to hold you down on the altar and make you scream for me instead.” He laughs, and it’s hollow. “And that’s just the altar. The confessional, your office, the prayer benches—I have ideas for every single inch of this church. “

 

“Stop, Matt.” Foggy orders. His heart is hammering and his voice is breathless. Matt thinks he’s close, but he doesn’t quite understand yet.

 

“Would you like to know what I imagined doing with you here? In front of the candles?”

 

“ _Enough.”_ Foggy says, and it’s low and darker than Matt has ever heard. Darker than Matt thought was possible, for someone like Foggy.

 

“I’d never do it.” Matt tells him, broken from his trance. God, what did he just _say?_ He wanted to give Foggy the truth, not give him nightmares. “Never. But I _want_ to. And that’s the part I don’t think you understand. Fighting, running, fucking—I want them all and not in a nice way, not in a normal one. I’m not a good person.”

 

Foggy is quiet for a moment. The guttering of the candles is loud in the silence, and the bells of the church are near deafening when the clock strikes twelve. Foggy is silent until the last chime fades away, and then he asks softly,

 

“Am _I_ a good person?”

 

There’s not second of hesitation in Matt’s response, not a shred of doubt in his mind.

 

“The best person I’ve ever met.” He tells Foggy honestly. “That’s the problem. We’re too different.” Foggy hums thoughtfully.

 

“Why did I become a priest, Matt?” Foggy asks, and Matt blinks, thrown by this sudden change in topic. “Come on, you must have theories. Why did I become a priest?” Foggy urges. Matt hesitates, but when Foggy squeezes his arm encouragingly he takes a steadying breath and answers.

 

“Because someone hurt you.” He whispers, hurt himself just by the idea. Did he just hurt Foggy too, with what he said? The thought makes him sick. “Someone hurt you very badly.”

 

And Foggy _laughs._

“Wrong answer.” He tells Matt with exaggerated cheerfulness. “Someone did hurt me, and I did become a priest. But that’s not why I did it.”

 

He moves to stand in front of Matt, maybe to see Matt’s reaction more clearly. Matt wants to reach out, to touch him, gather him close and tell him it’s okay. It’s not okay, Matt can tell that already. Matt’s scared to move though, in case Foggy is scared of him moving. After Matt’s admission of what he wants to do to Foggy, he could understand the feeling.

 

“So why did you do it?” Matt asks quietly, desperate to know but not sure he wants to. It’s going to be painful. It is.

 

“I became a priest because I hurt that someone back.” Foggy says quietly. “I held a knife to his throat until I saw blood, and I wanted to see more.”

 

Matt can’t breathe. Foggy continues, voice soft in memory.

 

“He was my roommate at school. He seemed nice enough—a little weird, but we got along okay.” He chuckles. “Apparently he thought we got along a hell of a lot more than ‘okay’.”

 

_Please, no._

“It started out mild. He’d walk me to class, want to have lunch together. But then he didn’t want me to have lunch with anyone else.” Foggy tells him. “And then came the letters, and the ‘gifts’, and the threats. The threats got bad enough that I went to the police, but they said there was nothing they could do.”

 

Of course they said that, Matt thinks viciously. The police are blinder than he is. They couldn’t see a little girl crying, and they couldn’t see Foggy either.

 

“I slept in a friend’s room instead, tried to avoid him. I graduated, took the bar, and I thought it would be okay. The threats stopped—but then I found out that was because he thought threats weren’t enough anymore.”

 

Matt needs to reach out, he _needs_ to. Foggy doesn't _sound_ fragile. He sounds steady and calm—a piece of art that's been broken but pieced back together again, cracked but stronger than ever. Matt wants to hold him together anyway, so that Foggy never has to break again.

 

He clenches his hands at his sides and stays still. Foggy isn’t done yet.

 

“He showed up at my apartment with a knife. I’d locked the doors, so he got in through a window, stuck me through the stomach before I even knew what was happening.” Foggy recalls. “He’d let go of the knife, thought I was done for. And he kept _talking,_ about how this was for the best and how much I’d hurt him. So I hurt him more, hit him over the head with a lamp and kicked him until he was down. And it had been quiet, I hadn’t even screamed. I was there, with the man who had ruined my life and the knife he’d used to do it, and I had all the time in the world before someone noticed something was wrong.”

 

Matt bites his lip to keep from saying how much he wants to hurt the man too. It's Foggy's story, not his.

 

“And I had the knife _at_ his throat, and it would have been so easy.” Foggy muses dimly. “I wanted to do it, and that terrified me. So I put the knife down, went next door and asked my neighbor to call two ambulances, because I wasn’t riding with the man who stabbed me. Then I fainted.” He sighs. “I woke up in the hospital, and I hated everything. Everything terrified me.”

 

Matt remembers the way Foggy acted at the hospital when Matt visited. How much worse had it been that first time, when Matt wasn’t there?

 

“And then there was this priest—Father Lantom, you’d like him—and I told him to go away, said I never believed in God before and I sure as hell didn’t believe in Him now.” There’s fondness in his voice. “And Father Lantom said that was fine, he was just wondering if I wanted to play some poker.” Foggy laughs. “I was so shocked I just nodded like an idiot. And he came back the next day, and the next, and he made me believe where I never had before. I wanted to give that to other people, give them hope where they didn’t have any.”

 

Foggy reaches out to touch Matt’s hand gently. Matt probably grips it back too hard, but Foggy doesn’t tell him to stop. Foggy's serene. He's made his peace with his darker side, in a way Matt has never been able to.

 

“That’s why I became a priest, Matt.” He finishes softly. “So don’t _ever_ think that I can’t understand what that rage feels like. Don’t ever think that I’d judge you for it. If you’re a monster, then so am I.”

 

Matt should say how sorry he is that Foggy went through that, how sorry Matt is for doubting him. He should say how grateful he is that Foggy shared that secret with him, and how much Matt respects his choices and admires him, then and now. He should say that Foggy isn’t a monster, that he’s the furthest thing from a monster in the world.

 

Matt should say all of that, but what he says instead is:

 

“I love you.”

 

“Well, that was pretty much the one reaction I _wasn’t_ expecting.” Foggy mutters with a startled laugh. He hesitates. “Really?”

 

“Yeah.” Matt admits. “Sorry.” He should have said sorry before, said it for something he actually _was_ sorry for. He’s not sorry for loving Foggy. He’s probably going to hell for it, but he’s not sorry.

 

There are worse things to be damned for.

 

“Huh.” Foggy says, dazed. Matt’s not sure if that’s a good ‘huh’ or not. Foggy shifts in place, clearing his throat. He doesn’t pull his hand away, and that’s something. “Okay." He pauses, thoughtful. "You know, you're the first person I ever really wanted, after. I didn't even know that I could remember what that felt like. I never thought I'd _want_ like that again." 

 

"You _want_?" Matt asks, breathless at the thought. "Me? Because I'd never force you. I'm not, I'm not like—"  _Not like the man that tried to hurt you. Never._

 

 _"_ Yeah, I know." Foggy tells him, and there's a calm certainty in his voice, a warmth. "I knew that the moment you walked into my church."

 

"And you really do want this?" Matt has to be sure. There can't be a single doubt, because this is too important. It's not the damnation that matters, it's what Foggy wants. What Foggy needs.

 

"I’m not really sure 'want' is the right word, actually." Foggy says slowly. "It's a little more—a _lot_ more—but it's hard to—and I should probably mention—if _you_ wanted—” He stops, sighs in defeat. “Oh, fuck it.”

 

One rosary for saying ‘fuck’, Matt thinks faintly. He’s not sure there are enough rosaries in the world to make up for kissing a priest on holy ground.

 

“You’re a very bad confessor, you know.” Foggy tells him wryly between breathless kisses. Matt makes a vague sound of agreement and wraps an arm around Foggy’s waist to pull him closer. “You never actually apologize for sinning, and you make the priest want to sin too.”

 

“Mm-hmm.” Matt agrees, running a hand tenderly through Foggy’s hair and biting gently at his lip. Kissing him again, another sin that Matt will never apologize for. Foggy _wants_ him. “We can repent together. Who do priests confess to?”

 

Foggy laughs.

 

“ _Priests_ confess to other priests.” He explains kindly. “People who have recently _left_ the priesthood to be with their mortal-sinning male lover tend to avoid stepping foot near a confessional until the nuns stop gossiping.”

 

He says it lightly, but Matt hears the hesitation in his voice. Like he’s not sure how Matt will take it. It’s ridiculous to think that Matt would be anything but overjoyed and awestruck. Is obliviousness a sin?

 

“Did you really quit?” Foggy makes a sheepish sound of agreement. “Why?”

 

“I became a priest because I wanted to save people.” Foggy tells him quietly. “I quit because I wanted to be saved.”

 

And somehow, that breaks Matt's heart wide open and then mends all the cracks back together all at once, because that's just...perfect. Exactly what he needed to hear. Heartbreaking. Heart-making. Breathtaking.

 

“I adore you.” Matt tells him thickly when he can finally find the breath to speak, pressing a quick kiss to his mouth. “But what about your church?”

 

He knows how much the other parishioners love Foggy. Matt hears them talking. He’s good with the children and good with their parents, takes the time to talk to each member of the congregation and ask about their lives. And he _knows_ about their lives—he knows all the families, birthdays and wedding days and everything else. He knows that one person likes brownies and another one likes lemon squares, and he bakes them both and serves them after Mass.

 

This church loves Foggy, and Matt’s going to steal him away. There’s no question of that—Matt _is_ going to steal him. He just needs to know how guilty he should feel about it.

 

“Oh, it’ll be fine.” Foggy assures him happily. “Father Lantom technically retired, but no one believes it. I bet he’s already signing the paperwork to take over and kick me out. He’s a shark, is Father Lantom. Cheats at poker too.” Matt blinks.

 

“And you’re okay with that?” He asks, hesitant. He doesn’t want to change Foggy’s mind, but Foggy spent at least three years working for this position. Is it really fair to ask him to throw it away just for one person? Matt’s going to ask him anyway, sure, but that doesn’t mean it’s _fair._

 

“They love him.” Foggy promises. “He belongs here more than I do.” He chuckles. “Besides, I was a terrible priest.”

 

“No, you are—were—a wonderful priest.” Matt argues earnestly. Foggy huffs in disbelief.

 

“Matt, I’m making out in a church with a man who I’ve been secretly lusting after for months while I was performing a sacrament.” Foggy tells him lightly. “I am an _awful_ priest.”

 

Matt shrugs. He still thinks Foggy is— _was,_ past tense, now he’s not and he’s in Matt’s arms instead and it’s perfect—an amazing priest, but Matt’s offered a token protest and he’s not going to push his luck.

 

“So, what are you going to do instead?” Matt wonders, running a gentle hand up Foggy’s back because he can do that now, he can. Foggy sighs happily, leaning in to press a kiss to his jaw before answering.

 

“I was considering a career in law. It seems a shame to waste a perfectly good degree.” Foggy muses thoughtfully. Matt grins.

 

“I know someone who’s looking for a partner.” He offers, trying to match Foggy’s casual tone and only managing to sound excruciatingly hopeful. Foggy laughs, tapping Matt on the nose.

 

“I will consider the proposal.” He says primly, and it sounds like a ‘yes’. “But that’s long-term. Right now, I want to go home with my mortal-sinning male lover before we end up defiling this church.”

 

Matt nods quickly

 

“Absolutely. Defiling is a horrible sin.” Foggy huffs.

 

“Say the guy who was detailing his plans to fuck a priest on the altar.” Matt shakes his head.

 

“ _Make love_ to a priest on the altar.” He corrects Foggy solemnly. “But you’re right that we should wait. I don’t want to mess up this church any more than I already have.” He thinks of the blood, the night he stumbled in after fighting Nobu and collapsed at Foggy’s feet. That’s quite enough damage for one church.

 

“Damn straight.” Foggy mutters, and Matt frowns thoughtfully.

 

“You swear a lot for a priest.” He points out, and Foggy answers without missing a beat.

 

“Fuck yeah I do.”

 

* * *

 

“Did you actually do the rosary thing?” Foggy wonders sleepily. Matt tenses, lips still pressed to Foggy’s shoulder where he was lazily licking at a love bite. “Oh my god, you _did.”_

“Not extensively.” Matt argues weakly, even though he’d done it every night for weeks. Sometimes twice. “And it was an action born of true love rather than lust. That’s a thing, right?” 

 

“That is, in fact, not a thing.” Foggy informs him dryly. “Normally, I’d tell you to pray a rosary for that, but you’d probably pray three and enjoy every second.”

 

“We could try it?” Matt offers eagerly. He hasn’t gotten a chance to try the rosary with Foggy. That was the reason he’d starting using it in the first place, _because_ he didn’t have Foggy. And now that he does he should probably stop abusing a holy artifact.

 

On the other hand, he doesn’t know what the beads sound like when they’re sliding across Foggy’s skin, brushing across his lips and over his shoulders, down his chest and stomach, just a little lower. Matt’s mouth following behind it, gentle and tender. Worshipping.

 

“You know, they warned me about people like you.” Foggy muses absently. “Seducers sent to tempt me from the path of righteousness. Incubi. Devils.”

 

“Mm.” Matt agrees happily, going back to nuzzling Foggy’s shoulder. “I like that.”

 

“Of course you do.” Foggy sighs. “That’s because you—whoa, okay.” He yelps when Matt nips at his collarbone and traces his hand down Foggy’s thigh. “Again? Seriously?”

 

Matt nods solemnly before leaning back in to kiss at the hollow of Foggy’s throat.

 

“So,” Foggy says a little breathlessly, shifting to bare his throat a little more. “Is this just going to be a relationship built entirely on kinky sacrilege? Or are we going to eventually do this the vanilla way?”

 

Matt considers. Obviously sinning is bad, but sinning also _feels_ really good.

 

He’s already got wrath etched into his very bones. He lusts for Foggy so much that he wanted to take him in a church, and everywhere else too. He feels the greed taking hold when he licks along Foggy’s skin, never enough, all for him. He envied the church for having Foggy before he did. He swallowed every drop when Foggy came for him, and then Matt begged for more, so that’s gluttony. He’s proud that Foggy chose him over the priesthood. He’s planning to keep Foggy in bed for the whole weekend, so there’s sloth.

 

That’s seven deadly sins, and he feels more alive than he ever has in his life.

 

One more sin won’t hurt.

 

 “It’s okay.” Matt mumbles. “We don’t have to use the rosary.” He bites his lip, eyes wide and mournful. “I’m happy just as long as we’re together.”

 

“That is shameless emotional manipulation.” Foggy protests, but he doesn’t sound too upset. Matt carefully hides a grin. “Matt, come on. This would be like eternal damnation levels of not-good. I got those beads for graduation, when I took a _vow of_ _chastity.”_

 

“Of course.” Matt agrees softly. “You’ve already given so much to me. It would be selfish to ask for more.” He lifts his hand away obediently, lingering just a moment between Foggy’s legs as he goes. Foggy arches and gasps.

 

“You never confessed to being an insatiable sex maniac with a blasphemy fetish.” He accuses weakly. “How did that not come up?”

 

“I just love being with you as much as I can.” Matt explains tenderly, running a gentle finger down Foggy’s cheek. Close, so close. Foggy sighs and presses into the caress. “And I never told you because I thought it was hopeless. I never imagined that you would choose to be with someone like me.”

 

“Don’t you dare.” Foggy warns him lowly. “You know you’re amazing, but that doesn’t mean I want to ruin our afterlife just for the sake of our afterglow. Hell would suck, Matt.”

 

Matt nods, ducking his head and pressing a timid kiss to Foggy’s forehead.

 

“I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be bad.” He murmurs, shy and fragile. “I want to be good. I do.”

 

“Matt, I swear to God…” Matt kisses him again, soft and sweet. He pulls away with a small, adoring smile.

 

“I love you, so much.” He whispers warmly. “You tell me what you want, okay? I’ll do anything to make you happy. _I love you.”_ Foggy is quiet for a moment. Matt holds his breath, hopeful. One more sin, just one more…

 

“Get the damn rosary. See you in hell.”

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know if I should put a warning for the stalker or not. It's pretty tame, and Foggy takes him down before he can do anything non-con (well, Foggy didn't consent to the stabbing either). I like having it as a mystery until the end, but if it really bugs you, let me know and I'll put something up. 
> 
> As for the stalker himself, he went to jail for a very long time, and if he ever gets out he's going to have a very eventful meeting with Matt Murdock. So he'd probably be safer in jail. 
> 
> Also, all of my Catholic schooling is rebelling at the thought of using rosaries like this, but I wrote it anyway. I'm awful, but at least the nuns can't smack me with their rulers anymore.


End file.
